The drawbacks of convenience
by cattaclysm
Summary: Something brews across the academy, something beyond the two boys' comprehension, and the world might never be the same. They were going to get to the bottom of it, but not before they settled some personal disputes. This wasn't simple ruckus, however, it was a cataclysmic turn of events that would leave the consequences unrevealed, but not nonexistent. It was only convenient.
1. Convenience

This wasn't romance. Gregory assured himself this while he hugged Christophe at the doorstep of his dorm room (well the one they normally shared) after The Mole being back in France for the past 6 months. A heartfelt reunion between close friends, one would say. They didn't look deep enough.

No, this wasn't romance, it was convenience. It was convenient for Christophe to fall in love with the blond, it made things much easier, he assured himself. There wasn't a thread of gentleness in their voices, no, that's not how they show affection verbally, it's the way words were exchanged, the simple gestures, the things that looked so careless from the surface.

"Taking care of yourself, Mole?" Gregory asked, leaning back against the wall and watching the Frenchman untie his shoes before taking them off. His socks were a dark brown and there was a hole in the toe area on one of them, so the blond left to his bedroom without asking, reached inside his dresser and grabbed a normal pair of socks that he later tossed at the other.

"To the best of my ability," Christophe answered, and Gregory found himself noticing how his face constantly wore the same scowl . Honestly, the boy looked a mess. This was no time for that, though.

"Now we both know that's a lie, but," he paused, caught a sideways glance of Christophe, who had gotten up, opening his fridge, and moved from his position of leaning against the wall, "Worry not, I'll fix that," he practically felt the French mercenary roll his eyes behind the fridge door. He grabbed a glass bottle of beer and closed the fridge before prying it open.

Yes, it was convenient, they worked together, they were kids, it was a good opportunity. They were sure of that. Gregory was no older than 15, actually, while Christophe was only a year older. Their birthdays were on the same day, and they consistently gave each other enormous presents, to prove something to each other, something long forgotten, but it was kept as a tradition. December 15th, right when the holidays were beginning, but school was still in session, not cold enough to catch anything worse than the flu, but cold enough to complain about. Yes, their birthdays were on possibly the worst day in the entire year. That day happened to be nearing, actually. It was December 9th.

"How has school been?" The brunet asked, taking a seat on one of the beds, the one he claimed as his own 2 years ago, when he and Gregory first set foot in the dorm room.

"As usual," Gregory sighed, sitting down on his, "Atrocious," he still maintained his excellent grades, but he was faced with quite the conundrum when one of the English teachers from last year didn't show up in September and was, instead, replaced with a young woman who constantly criticized his freewilled essays and reports, instead suggesting he write 'Like all the other kids'. Gregory thought if appropriate to mention this.

"Really?" The Mole was in shock, Gregory was an excellent writer, so this woman stepping in was clearly insane, "She must be crazy."

"Possibly," the blond answered, falling back on his bed and watching the ceiling, "I lost track of how many times she tried to lower my grade with that. In the end I just complained to some of the other teachers."

"Good," the Frenchman said, looking over at Gregory's half-laying body, "Your writing is impressive."

Thanks were mumbled and silence overtook for a few seconds.

"Anything else?" Christophe asked again curiously.

"Well I did almost get thrown out for punching a kid in the gut," The Mole snickered at this. Gregory truly was the best, "He insulted me and I simply returned the blow, physically."

"I wouldn't have had it any other way," he answered, "A picture is worth a thousand words, so I'm sure he got the message from the one you painted on his stomach," and he still couldn't stop laughing.

They were kids, after all. Truth be told, Gregory missed the brunet, although he wasn't crazy enough to say it, he let him know on his own terms, be they a compliment thrown out of nowhere or the offer of Christophe's favorite food. Or...

"It has been awfully dull without you," or simply suggesting it. Never outright saying it.

"Mm?" The Mole hummed in question from his bed, laying back, "How on Earth did you survive?" he half-joked. In reality, it wasn't any different on his side.

"Very funny. How have you been, though? How's the family?" the blond asked, sitting down beside him.

"Boring as usual."

"Ah, so not much different."

"Not even close. My family is kind, especially compared to the assholes that teach here," he spat, especially directed at the new teacher, "I did miss you, though," well Gregory never said it, that didn't mean the Frenchman had to play his game.

"I missed you too," unless struck with it being said to him. He had to say it back. Not like it wasn't the truth, and when Chris said it in such a genuine tone, he could swallow his pride for the time being. The brunet did that to him often, made him sink to his level, be it verbally or physically.

"Wanna throw rocks at the windows of the teachers' lounge?" he offered, standing up and offering Gregory a hand.

He took it gladly and they got their shoes on before jolting towards the doors.

No, this wasn't romance, but it wasn't convenience either, it was something much deeper than the two could ever admit. It was knowing someone on a cosmic level to the point where you know what they're thinking. Yes, it was convenient to the blond to fall in love with The Mole, but it was ill advised. He was called a 'bad influence' since apparently no one else noticed how corrupted Gregory was already. He was simply fanning the flames. Yes, they were kids, and as kids do, they had a whole life ahead of them, a life of causing trouble for whoever dared try to breach the wall they created around themselves. But Gregory's eyes were the color of the sky and they were brighter than stars, and Christophe enjoyed stargazing a lot more.

It was convenient.


	2. Blue

They tossed rocks that day, right until the point of a teacher rushing out, at which point they ran for it before he could catch a glimpse of them. It's a good thing the uniforms all looked the same. It's a good thing they didn't stand out.

They ran up a small hill and collapsed into fits of loud laughter that echoed throughout the area, but it didn't reach the school. They fell down onto the snow covered grass and watched the skies. The world made sense then, when they couldn't stop laughing over the teacher's reaction, when the snow soaked their clothes but the sun shined mercilessly, blindingly.

"D'ya reckon they'll find us?" Gregory asked. His blond hair was wet from the snow, along with his uniform and basically everything else.

"Nope," Christophe answered, his own hair an absolute mess by now, his eyes darting between the blond and the snow.

"I hope not," Gregory commented, not really paying attention much, just sort of... looking at the way the snowflakes fell from the sky.

"It's our birthday soon," the French boy added, also half-attentive, mostly watching Gregory get covered in the tiny flakes.

"It is," the blond answered, absolutely immersed in the snow, "And it's winter break soon too. I don't understand why you didn't stay with your family for another 15 days, then you wouldn't have gone to school at all," and they laughed a bit because they both knew that wouldn't have happened. Christophe's parents are quite hell-bent on making sure the brunet gets a good education. They thought making him room with the Brit would be a good idea but they didn't realize the two would become inseparable and, apparently, take it upon themselves to make school horrible for everyone who attended it.

Speaking of school, tomorrow was a Monday, a day everyone dreaded, especially because Gregory and Christophe hated Mondays and were especially troublesome on those days.

The snow fell and the world seemed so simple on that cold, bright Sunday afternoon. The boys noticed the sun going down, it was around 9PM and everyone was meant to be inside the school by midnight.

"Wanna go to the fair?" Gregory proposed, he knew they shouldn't go, but that was the fun of it. After a nod from the brunet, they took off.

By the time they arrived it stopped snowing and it was nearing the 9.30PM mark, but the night was young and so were they and Gregory's face looked especially bright in the lights of the little fair booths and stands. He looked very pretty like that, The Mole found himself thinking before shaking it off, no, Gregory wasn't pretty, Gregory was menacing, he was a force of true evil sometimes, even his laugh sounded mean. Whatever, Christophe still thought he was pretty.

Time went by, the two decided to raid any food stand they could find before going on the Ferris wheel, where Christophe almost threw up and Gregory laughed at the faces he made before gagging and retching himself for a moment, at which point they deemed themselves even when Christophe burst out laughing at the sight.

The noise started getting a bit obnoxious and Gregory grabbed the French boy by the collar and tugged at it, signaling they were going somewhere. The boy lead him to a creek far away enough for the sound of the fair to be inaudible. Instead, the water flowing and rippling was the only sound they could hear besides themselves as they sat down beside it, Christophe grabbing a rock and tossing it into the water, which made Gregory do the same, and they spent the next few minutes just throwing pebbles into the creek.

And then bitter silence overtook as the boys threw sideways glances at each other until their eyes met, at which point Christophe looked down and Gregory looked up at the sky. Their gazes put together could easily form a horizontal line and they sat there, in silence for a while.

Gregory's eyes still looked really bright and Christophe hated them with all his might because he couldn't stop staring at them. He hated the color blue anyway. That was a blatant lie but he wouldn't admit it. Those eyes were the ugliest thing he'd ever seen then, they were so big and bright, but he couldn't stop looking at them and they began looking nicer and nicer. Damn Gregory, damn him and his stupid eyes. He angrily threw another rock into the water.

Gregory just sort of stared at the ground, looking at Christophe from the corner of his eyes occasionally, watching the way he moved, how upset he looked, and then it started snowing again. Both their gazes followed the source of the snow and, as they were looking down, their eyes met again, but they kept them on each other this time. Soon enough it turned into a staring contest.

Christophe cursed those blue eyes and Gregory looked at how the French boy's looked so dark and deep like... well he couldn't compare them to anything, but they were dark. They were dark and Gregory thought they looked wonderful. Not scary or lifeless or any of that, just... wonderful.

"Your eyes look nice like that," the blond commented, absorbed in not looking away.

Christophe arched a brow, but kept his gaze locked, "What do you mean?"

"They're really dark," he mumbled, "They look nice."

"Oh."

And there were no more words, those were useless, just staring. At one point the Brit won, but his victory was forgotten when they got so close their noses touched and they both went red before jumping up and looking at Christophe's wristwatch.

_11.30PM_

_Crap_

They quickly scurried off towards their school and snuck back, thankfully right on time. They went to the lounge to grab something to drink before running up the stairs and into their dorm room, shutting and locking the door and falling on their respective beds.

Gregory sighed in exhaustion while the other was quite flustered, still, and kept his face buried in the pillows.

It didn't seem so convenient then as he watch the blond get up, walk over to his bed, kneel down beside him and try to peek at his face. It didn't seem very convenient at all. But it still snowed outside and Gregory's eyes were still the nicest and worst he's ever seen and he couldn't help but turn his head to look at them. But instead he felt a pair of lips join his own. He was in shock for a moment until:

_Oh._ It was a kiss. It took him a few seconds to respond, but soon after, the Brit pulled away and rustled his hair before leaving to go to the bathroom. He cursed Gregory, cursed him and his eyes for making him look. And he cursed everything about him for not letting him turn away. And he cursed himself for liking it.

Yes, Gregory was menacing, but his eyes were gentle from time to time. He hated them.


	3. Blond

It was their birthday.

That sentence alone makes them laugh at both how stupid birthdays are and how ridiculous it is to say that.

"Happy birthday, Mole," Gregory said calmly, gently shaking the boy in question awake.

"H'pp' br'd'y," the other mumbled sleepily, opening his eyes before cringing at the brightness of the blond's hair and shutting them again. Stupid Brit with his stupid hair.

Gregory noticed this and moved aside, to accommodate the brunet's ridiculous needs. The boy sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes before looking around. There wasn't an enormous, horribly wrapped box anywhere to be found. He thought maybe it was too big to fit in the room. The blond had a way of making everything extreme and he found himself being a fucking idiot by playing along. Or was it he who started it? The world may never know.

"Where is it?"

"Why, I have no idea what you're talking about, Christophe," the Brit feigned surprise.

"Cut the crap, where is it?" he repeated, stretching and moving around to get out of bed. This ended with him faceplanting the floor, much to the blond's amusement. He really thought Gregory was a sadistic asshole sometimes. Other times, he was sure of it.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to wait."

He groaned against the floor in response and Gregory snickered. The brunet retaliated by tossing a crumpled up piece of paper at him.

"Now, now," he scolded, "No need for violence. Seriously, don't worry, I got you something, you'll just have to wait to see what it is."

Thankfully there was no school that day, since it was Saturday. Unfortunately, that meant an annoying Skype session with their parents on their respective laptops. Chris swears his family has separation issues. Gregory swears his forgets his name sometimes.

They got that over with as soon as possible and they were free to do whatever they wanted. Gregory wanted to watch TV, Christophe wanted to go out. The prior won with the argument that it's too cold to go out and they'll do it later. The latter grumbled a response and stared at his eyes again. He hated them.

The French boy was bored and the TV provided little relief. He looked around the dorm room, tried eating anything he could find, playing video games, hell, he even tried reading, but nothing worked and the blond was still invested in whatever was on TV. He decided to look at Gregory's hair for a bit.

It was so bright and soft. He wished it felt like straw so he could hate it, but it didn't and he couldn't. He did, though, a bit. Because it belonged to Gregory. Fucking Gregory, the boy he was stuck living with for the next 2 years, the boy who was the opposite of convenient. This should've been easy, this should've been emotionless, this should've been convenient. It wasn't. It was hard and it was bad. He stared at the Brit's hair some more.

It fell perfectly in place every morning and it was... so fucking bright. It felt soft and he just wanted to yank some strands out because he absolutely hated it. It was the worst because it was perfect. It was almost as bad as Gregory himself. Gregory and his stupid eyes and his stupid hair.

"Show's over," the aforementioned Brit said, shaking Christophe out of his thoughts, "We can go out now."

Go out. That sounded like it shouldn't sound. It sounded like what the French boy wanted it to be. It sounded like what he dreaded, too. Nonetheless, he got up, got dressed and left with the blond.

"I wanna build a treehouse," the comment practically came from nowhere and the brunet found himself in awe at how Gregory's mind worked, "During winter break," he warned, "We're building one."

He found himself mumbling something in agreement and continuing to walk with the boy.

"Where are we going anyway?" The blond spoke again. Christophe wished he could just shut punch him in the face to shut him up.

"I don't know," he admitted. Truth be told, he just wanted out of there, "That nearby forest, I guess, there's benches over there," he contemplated aloud.

"Well d'ya wanna stop by a convenience store for some coke or something?" he swore that the Brit was using that term just to annoy him. Nothing was convenient, not even that damn store. But nevertheless he nodded and they set off.

The trip to the convenience store was quick and... quite convenient, the French boy hated to admit. They walked to the forest in question, Gregory had gotten a bottle of bubbly water while Christophe got some coke. They walked in silence. It was awkward to say the least and Christophe still cursed the blond and his stupid fucking hair and his stupid eyes. There was nothing nice about the mane on his head, and there was nothing nice about those dumb blue orbs, they were just as awful as he was. He hated them so much.

They made it to the forest and sat down on one of the benches and Christophe realized how much he _fucking_ hated Gregory when the blond ran his hands through his soft blond hair and laughed at something he said. Stupid arrogant prick, he thought, he's horrible! Downright horrible. The blue eyed boy sighed and leaned back on the bench before lifting his arm to encircle his hand round a leaf and tug it down. He eyed it over and threw it at the French boy.

"What was that for?" Christophe asked, unamused, and Gregory laughed in response.

"You were brooding," he stopped laughing and deadpanned. Christophe scoffed and returned the gesture by picking a handful of leaves and tossing them at the blond.

"You dick!" he yelled through laughter and the brunet found himself laughing as well. But then Gregory leaned on him and _the world stopped_. He noticed how the blond's laugh was sinister, it wasn't endearing in the slightest, it was horrible like the rest of him. Stupid Gregory. Their arms rubbed against one another while Gregory shook with laughed before coming to a rest and leaning his head on Christophe's shoulder and yawning. Oh hell no, he wasn't about to fall asleep on him. No, no, _no, abort mission!_

But, like in a psycho-Christian family of 8, nothing was aborted and the brunet found himself sitting still, the blond leaning against him and mumbling something or other. He waited until the English boy sat upright and relaxed, finally. He survived. There was an uncomfortable feeling in his chest that made breathing a bit difficult but mostly it was... fluttery? He wasn't sure if that was the right word, but it worked in this case. It was _convenient_. Unlike the blond. Unlike his stupid blue eyes.

Unlike Gregory.

No, Gregory, he was... he was inconvenient and horrible and fucking unreachable. He was vicious and he was cocky and he was rude and he was oh, so out of everyone's league. He had his own league of fucking perfect blonds that he hates. He hated him. He despised him, oh he _absolutely_ despised him. His eyes were large and sharp and his cheeks were soft and freckles were scattered on his light skin and he had the most menacing smile he'd ever seen. Fuck Gregory and fuck his stupid smile.

But the blond in question started speaking and the questioning thoughts vanished.

"It's quite nice," he began, "the sky and the air..." he trailed off and the sound of birds was audible ever so slightly, ever so often, every time the Brit would stop speaking. But he began again: "It's almost... home," he concluded and then silence took over, besides the birds, of course. Stupid birds. Even Gregory's stupid voice was better. Even... _even_.

They sat like that for a while, conversing occasionally, the brunet absolutely despising the blond meanwhile, as he would want to do. But his mind wasn't listening as his face tinted (with rage and hatred, of course) while he thought about Gregory's eyes and his hair and _him_. And possibly them since they do spend all their time together. Only possibly, though. Possibly, also, he contemplated touching him. Just trailing his fingers up his arm slowly. His skin would be hot, it always is in the winter. Christophe's is... also hot, probably. He never really paid much attention to his own skin. Far too focused on... things. The day seemed infinite and sunlight seemed endless.

But it was sundown. It was sundown and it wasn't infinite. It wasn't infinite or convenient. And Gregory was an asshole but he _loved _him. Wait, no.

Christophe let out a noise in frustration and got up off the bench.

"It's late," he excused his actions, "We should get back," and he offered a hand to Gregory and he had no idea why he did that.

"Alright," and the blond took his hand and he looked so composed and so relaxed and rage boiled inside of the French boy. How could he do that? How could he... fucking wreck his stomach and chest with one word?

He remained silent though. He remained silent and they walked. The sky was getting gloomy and dark and a breeze rolled. It was only around 5PM, but it was the middle of December. Gregory hugged himself over his jacket and Christophe remained unfazed by the cold. He was too busy thinking. His mind a mess and it was the Brit's fault. He watched how Gregory's hair gathered snow and he frowned, mistaking the snowflakes for the blond locks that were a bit messy by then. He moved to catch up with him and Gregory slipped his arm through the space between the Mole's left arm and his torso. He shook. He fucking _shook. _

"Sorry," the blond commented, "it's freezing!" and he kept him close and they walked in silence. He only let go when they arrived at the dormitory, fiddling around in his pockets and looking for the key of their dorm room. They entered the room and took their jackets and shoes off, plus Gregory's gloves. The brown eyed boy didn't bother with those. He fell back on his bed and watched as the blond attended to grabbing a bag of chips and tossing it at him before plopping down next to him.

They stuffed their faces and watched TV for a bit and soon enough it was 9PM.

"Hey," Christophe called to the Brit, "where's the present, then?" Gregory should have had it out by then. It was getting late and the French boy was not getting impatient. Not one bit.

There was a moment of silence and Gregory's face took on a serious demeanor and Christophe was actually scared because the blond was ruthless sometimes. Other times he was pure evil. But no punches were thrown, or insults. Instead, he grabbed his hand and the brunet wished, fucking wished for the death penalty because it felt like he was dying anyway. He shook again and the blue eyed boy took notice.

"I know," he whispered, as if it was something top-secret, and the brunet stilled, pulled his hand back and turned the other way.

"_Fuck you_" his voice cracked. No, no, not this, no. He felt that rage from earlier along with the fluttery feeling and his whole body felt like he was going to die. He felt his throat tighten because fucking Gregory was so calm and relaxed about this and he was a fucking mess. He hated him. He hated him. _He fucking hated him, _"I hate you," he whispered as tears gathered in his eyes and trailed down his cheeks freely.

"I know," the boy repeated, and set a hand on the other's shoulder, who tried to shrug him off but Gregory's hand was firm and he sobbed like a child. Fuck.

"I..." the blond began, but he wasn't sure what to say. Words were fleeting and the brunet was a total, total mess, "I..." he began again, stopped himself, stiffened and continued, "I need you..." his voice broke as well, "to..." and he stopped again, "to need me," and he shut his eyes and shook his head. He wasn't going to cry. No.

Christophe was trying to calm down, he wanted to speak, but his voice shook and he didn't want that. He stopped, prepared himself, and spoke: "I..." he began, just like the blond, "_fuck,_" and he stopped for a moment before continuing, "I hate..." and again, "I hate that I need you, you fucking..." he trailed off, "_goddammit,_" more tears. He let them flow freely and the blond wrapped his arms around him and he hated him. He hated him so much.

He whispered soothing things to the brown eyed French boy who, in turn, started to calm down and, slowly, ever so slowly, he dozed off.

But Gregory was still inconvenient and his stupid hair was still perfect, just like him, and he hated it. He hated _him._


	4. Lovesick

After he woke up, The Mole got up and went over to his own bed and thought about what happened last night.

He laid out his entire soul to the blond and he could only sit there, mouth agape. Christophe shook again, Gregory didn't fucking care, his pokerface was constant and... even though he soothed the brunet to sleep, he didn't care, Christophe absolutely knew it. Why would he, anyway?! _Fuck._ Gregory was...

Horrid.

He was so horrid and disgusting and sick and corrupt and awful and menacing and evil and so perfect. Wait. No, no, he was... all those bad things. Some sunlight beamed into the room, unwelcome by the French boy but warmly accepted by the sleeping blond. Fuck, he hated him. Him and his blond hair and blue eyes and the little spots on his skin. Stupid Brit. Stupid blond. Stupid fucking jerk. He bit his lip. The pain in his chest seemed infinite and he still shook. He shook and he hurt because he didn't know what he was feeling, what his stupid brain was doing. He was supposed to hate this kid. He did, but... Heh, if he did, there would be no 'but', would there? But, he did. _He did._

Gregory awoke slowly, steadily, greeted with the soft sunlight but a lack of a body next to him. He looked over and released a gentle, relieved sigh as he saw the aforementioned body laid in the bed next to his. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and yawned, announcing his conscience to the other.

"Good morning," Christophe mumbled weakly, trying to keep his voice steady. He shut his eyes and hid his face with the covers.

Gregory looked to his right towards the brunet: "Morning," he also mumbled, mostly because he was asleep up until 2 minutes ago, and yawned, "What uh," he struggled to form the sentence, still half asleep, "What do you want for breakfast?" he asked, stretching and finding a new steadiness to his voice, finally. He could announce himself awake. But that was for losers and no way was he, Gregory of Yardale, ever a loser, by any means. No, he assured himself, he was a hero. A cool hero. He smiled and got up towards the kitchen area.

"I'll just... have some eggs I guess," the brunet answered, feeling his voice giving out and coughing to clear his throat.

"Oh dear, are you ill?" he stopped in his tracks at the cough and looked at the covered body.

"I hope not," he answered. He wasn't. He was perfectly fine. Well, besides the pain in his chest. He would get over it. It stung like an open wound though. A car exploding underwater and Christophe didn't get out on time and now all he's got is a wound with a salt water infection. It hurt.

Still, with all the composure of a lion-trainer, the blue eyed Brit walked over to his bed and sat down beside him, setting a hand on his shoulder: "Are you cold?"

_Gregory_ was cold. He was cold and ruthless. The brunet, though, he wasn't sure if he was on the surface of the Sun or the North pole. He mumbled something along those lines and Gregory felt his forehead.

"You're burning up."

_I know, _he wanted to say, _It's your fault_.

He kept his mouth shut though, enjoying the blond's cool skin on his hot forehead.

"Good thing it's a Sunday," he commented, getting up and rustling The Mole's hair before going to the kitchen, "I'm gonna make you some tea and then we can go to the nurse so she can prescribe you some antibiotics, okay?" it wasn't a question, it was just worded like one. Christophe didn't have a choice, he knew that, he nodded and huffed. Stupid, stupid, stupid idiot boy, making his heart race and his chest ache. He was better off without him. He hated him, but... he needed him. _He hated him._ He sighed and let it sink in that he was probably sick and... Gregory... cared? It seemed too good to be true.

Something set itself in his field of vision. It blocked his view of the low-bottomed window. Oh. Tea. Okay. He didn't move for it, it was probably too hot. He felt a weight join him on his bed. It was Gregory. Maybe he got over it and Christophe was the only one dwelling on it, maybe everything was going to go back to normal. Maybe he... he couldn't.

But then, wow, he was touching him so he assumed it... wasn't back to normal? He wasn't sure, he let the hands roam down his chest and then up to his hair, tangling in it and he felt the other boy's hot breath on his neck.

"You'll get sick, too" he whispered. His throat hurt.

The blond paid no mind, ignoring his weak protest, and reached over him with impressive dexterity to pick up the cup of tea and blow cool air on it before telling the brunet to turn to face him and putting the cup to his lips. Christophe scoffed and grabbed it, chugging the tea down until he felt a burning sensation in his throat. Ow. He coughed a bit and stopped drinking.

"Did you burn your throat?"

"Yeah," he managed.

"Good job," the Brit answered, laced with sarcasm and he rolled his eyes and got up. He was a couple of inches taller than the brunet who measured at around 5'4". He's lucky he's that tall, the cigarettes stunted his growth a tiny bit. The blue eyed boy smoked too, but he hadn't started until he turned 14, last year. He was quite amazing actually, looking past how horrid he was. Yes, Christophe hated him and the pain in his chest returned.

He heard some noise and realized, oh, Gregory had gone off somewhere. He returned with a throat lozenge and that menacing smile on his face. He wasn't going to force it into his mouth, was he?! The brown eyed French boy's eyes widened.

"What are you doing?"

The boy sat beside him.

"Sit up."

And he did.

"Open your mouth."

And once again, he obeyed, wondering what was going to happen.

Then, a bit too gently, the blond placed the lozenge on his tongue and he quickly clasped his mouth shut and turned around. Not again. This kid was so fucking terrible! The boy felt... he didn't know what he felt except pure rage and the pain in his chest was so _fucking strong_. He shut his eyes in frustration. He was so fucking confused and Gregory was calm and collected and he was a mess and Gregory was smart and he was a moron and Gregory was perfect and he was awful and Gregory was complicated when _it was supposed to be easy_. The words stung in his mind.

He sucked on the thing in his mouth and thought about it. _Easy. Heh, if only._ Math was easy, art was easy, this was... this was nothing like that. This was horrendously complicated, if it was a class, he'd have been worse at it than he was at history. He sniffles and hugged his covers close to his chest, which still ached. He was convinced he was dying. But then the blond turned him around and he wished he was.

He looked him in the eyes and he prayed for the death penalty, the blond loomed over him and he hoped he had a lethal disease, he wished he could just not exist because _it hurt_. And the Brit set his lips on his and he whined against him like a moron. He cursed himself and focused on the blond boy's warm lips moving slowly against his. The English boy was taking this slowly, the brunet had no idea why. Did he actually care? But before he got a definite answer, it was over, just like that. He looked at the blond, lips slightly open in shock before weakly punching him in the arm and ducking back down under his covers. The other boy chuckled before speaking.

"Oh come, now, Mole," he said a bit too softly, getting his attention, "I've kissed you before."

"Yes, but..." he tried to find his voice and... keep it steady this time. Fuck, he wished he could have a normal conversation with this boy but since last night he wasn't able to, "Not like that!" he concluded loudly. Finally, his voice was normal. His throat hurt and his voice must have mimicked it, but other than that, it was fine. Thankfully.

"You'll get used to it," the blond retaliated. Whatever that meant.

Stupid Gregory, so cool with this. He bet his throat didn't hurt and his chest didn't constrict itself and ache, he was... he was convinced the British boy was absolutely fine. _Fuck. _What were they, even? Were they anything? As if the blond was capable of anything close to human emotion! He whispered obscenities.

"Huh?"

Oh, right. Gregory was a person that existed. He looked up towards him and tried to read his face. It was a look of confusion and... a hint of something he couldn't even begin to comprehend.

"Nothing," he answered, "Just thinking," his accent must have been horrible then cause he was struggling to even form words, let alone say them.

"If you say so," and he laid a kiss to his forehead before getting up to go take a shower or something and the brunet's face heated up. Not again.

Was he missing something? Why was... why was Gregory so okay with this?! He must have about a billion girls in line to go out with him, but he decided to make out with the kid with anger issues and a smoking habit. He bore one as well, but that was beside the point. Gregory was a fucking mystery. A mystery no one could solve cause he was too fucking good for everyone. Especially ruthless, uncouth boys. Especially Christophe.

Yet he stuck around, they were friends, they were... whatever they were at the moment, they were always together for some reason and the brunet found himself seeking the other's approval because... Gregory was menacing and scary and he was a goddamn leader and Christophe was a kid that was scared of dogs. But the blond was a leader and leaders need someone by their side and the brunet filled that role perfectly. Maybe it was just a role he played, maybe... maybe Gregory didn't care, maybe he was busy with his own worries and he had no time. But his kisses were gentle and his skin was soft and Christophe was _fucking sick_. He needed him. He needed him and he hated him and he was fucking horrible, the worst! With his dumb blond hair and blue eyes and freckles and orange blouse and... ugh! He let out a noise in frustration. He had no idea what was going on. No idea whatsoever.

The noise of running water was audible and the brunet enjoyed the sound for a while, taking a break from thinking. Until the other walked out with a towel around his waist and another in his hand, messing with his wet hair. He plopped down on his own bed and thanked every god imaginable for the school's heating system.

"You're not going to school tomorrow," he stated to Christophe, dead serious.

"Oh. Why?"

"You're sick, you dolt!" oh he knew he was sick. A different kind of sick, though.

"Okay."

"I'm not going either," he commented.

"Why aren't you going?"

"Someone's got to take care of you," he reasoned, "And plus, I just swapped spit with you, I believe I'm not extremely healthy, myself. Better than you, but still," and then more silence.

Wait, what? Did he just fess up to kissing him? Well it's not like he could deny it, but... he should have! The French boy wished he would have, he wished they could have pretended it never happened, it would have been... convenient. The word stuck in his mind and uncomfortably jabbed at his heart. Was he convenient? Gregory wasn't, either way, and Christophe was a mess. He was a fucking mess and he hated him and he needed him and he needed him to hate him so this would make sense because he didn't want to love him. He hated him and the blond was a prick. He was a prick and he loved him! ...wait. No.

And the nature of his illness was noted by him and thoroughly denied, he wasn't ever saying it. Ever, ever, he told himself he had pneumonia or cancer or something. He wished he did, it was better than what he had. Anything was better. Anything was better than Gregory and his kisses and his voice and his fucking face. Anything was better than this deadly illness.

Anything was better than being lovesick.


End file.
